You say I don’t talk, don’t share,
feelings frozen over, in hibernation,
hermetic as the laden ice-covered branches
cutting you off from the core of who I am.

But the cold and slippery truth is
if I melt these icicles and
stand before you, naked and trembling,
I no longer could pretend to be your ideal,
conform to your projection of perfection,
and your rejection is more than I could bear.

I would become so very weightless and inconsequential
that you could blow me away
simply by the sigh of your indifference
like a snowflake in the wind and bitter cold,
disoriented and adrift in engulfing whiteness,
lost, like a million others.

Together is
the salty taste of our sweat mingling
bodies pressed so tightly I no longer know
where I stop and you begin
arms and legs intertwined
hearts inseparable
a dream

Emily said that “Hope is the thing with feathers”
But even the strongest bird is known stray off course,
misplaced in the darkest night of one’s soul,
as useless as a burnt out flame in sore storms.

I may not be a corporate mogul
or President of a country.
I may not be blue-blooded royalty
or independently wealthy.
I may not be a prize fighter
or own a fast car.
But I do have the power
to change my own outlook
on the things in my life
that make me unhappy.
That makes of me
the most powerful being of all.

For the “powerful” prompt on Sunday Scribblings.

He is eager,
lured by her perfume,
until he realises
he is caught in her trap.

Photo by Stef.

No sleep tonight.
Icy darkness brings with it packs of wolves.
My eyes will not shut as they pace below my window.
Hungry.

They hear the thumping within my ribcage and howl.
They wait patiently to devour me, tear me apart,
so that I might feel what it is like to die of fear,
plunging and breathless.

Little did they know I would not give in.
I will stare straight into their beady, green eyes without blinking
and tame them until they are nothing more than needy pups
napping on top of each other at sunrise.

If I pour myself into an alambic,
lock myself within shining copper containers
and boil down under pressure,
what concentrate would distill out?
Vapors of sweet goodness and honesty,
kindness and understanding,
condensing into quintessential droplets
of eau-de-vie and pure love?
What refuse of me would remain
black and charred at the bottom?
And so liberated, transformed, would a scent of freedom
then filter out untethered through the open window
into limitless spaces?

To remind me of what I don’t want
I’ve tied knots in red yarn on every finger

One for incomprehension
One for self-centeredness
One for abandonment
One for prejudice
One for jealousy
One for hunger
One for anger
One for guilt
One for hate
One for pain

I’ve run out of fingers
but not of dreams.

Bushy blue-black hair
cascades in tangles down her bronze back
growing from Punjabi and Spanish roots
spicy cultures unbridled atop her head
like curls of black smoke
rising from her blazing soul

Watch out if she turns ’round
she will singe you with sparks
from her smoky, kohl-lined eyes
should you dare get too close

I can see from the sparkle in your eye,
from the way you sidle up to me
that you’re looking for a new conquest
and I’m on the radar screen.

You’re on the prowl, so very virile,
lost youth hidden in your coy smile.
Hints drop from your lips like pebbles in a pond,
making waves that echo empty promises.

Dreaming of the trophy you’ll bring home,
you cast your line baited with innuendos
and wait for the slightest tug to reel me in,
to eviscerate me, stuff me, and set me glassy-eyed
over your mantel to collect dust.

I draw so near to you it hurts
(My hair tickles your cheek and
my perfume makes you dizzy)
then blow the words like bursting bubbles
into your eager ear
“Prove it”
before walking away.